only a couple of minutes, filled with easy conversation and speculation about what our internship will hold. Preston and I compare notes on the impressions we’ve gotten regarding the athletes so far. When the topic turns to Nash, I offer a vague response and change the subject to Christina. It’s a little clumsy, but Preston doesn’t seem to notice.
But the closer we get to my place, the more my nerves ratchet up, because I’m not sure what kind of parting Preston expects. Is this merely a friend offering me a ride home, or is this something else? Something more?
What do I want it to be?
I don’t know the answer to that.
By the time Preston pulls into the street parking in front of my house, I’m brimming with anxiety. He parks and gets out, opening my car door and closing it behind me. I start up the sidewalk and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer—and answering my unspoken question.
We reach my front door and the motion-activated LED flicks on, bathing us in a blue-white glow. At least Claire and Julianna aren’t home, affording me some degree of privacy while I attempt to navigate this.
Keys in hand and heart galloping, I turn to face him. “Thank you for the ride.”
“No problem.” Preston flashes me a perfect grin, and then his smile fades, blond brows knitting together. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we’re together this semester, but I don’t want it to make things weird between us. Are you okay with all of this? You seemed a little off tonight, and I wasn’t sure if that was why.”
Little does Preston know, he’s the least of my worries when it comes to the internship.
“I think it’ll be fine. Don’t you?”
The corner of his mouth tugs. “Oh, I’m good with it. Especially the part where I get to see you every day.”
There are a hundred girls on campus who’d kill to be in my shoes. I should be flattered, but what I feel is closer to panic. I nod but say nothing, unsure of how to respond. A few more seconds pass, an awkward silence hanging between us in the cool night air.
“Thanks again.” I step forward to give Preston a hug and he wraps his arms around me, giving me a squeeze. He smells good, objectively, like a mixture of laundry soap and expensive cologne, but nothing about it makes me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale his skin. Something’s missing. Is that what they call pheromones?
We remain intertwined for a few moments longer than platonic friends normally would before slowly pulling apart. Our gazes meet and his eyes darken, sending my pulse racing again. I know the look he’s giving me. It’s the universal male “I’m about to kiss you” look.
Do I want him to kiss me?
I’m still not sure.
Suddenly, I realize what’s holding me back: I’m broken. Utterly broken. I have a six-foot-something, undeniably gorgeous—not to mention, nice—guy standing at my door, and all I can think of is the jerk who’s sitting with his friends and groupies back at Overtime. You know, the one who smashed my heart into itty, bitty pieces and ground those pieces to dust for good measure.
Resentment kicks up within me, revving like a high-powered motorcycle engine. It’s bad enough that I let Nash ruin my past forty-eight hours. Now I’m letting him ruin my dating life, too? No. Not going to happen. I’m moving on. I have moved on. Welcome to Moved-On City, Population: Me.
Preston’s hands slide around to my lower back, and a nervous smile tugs at my cheeks. My stomach backflips with anticipation as he leans in, bringing our lips together.
Then, nothing.
Much to my dismay, I feel nothing on an emotional or physical level in response to Preston’s mouth pressed against mine. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with the kiss; his lips are soft and his breath smells like peppermint. But there’s nothing right, either. No flutters in my stomach, no pull between my legs, no wanton rush of heat from head to toe. Nothing, except for a massive wave of disappointment.
Still clinging to the faint possibility that something will ignite a fire within me, I part my lips, kissing him back. His tongue moves against mine in a way that can only be described as skillful. It’s not too rough or too soft, and there are no teeth or excessive amounts of saliva involved. It feels . . . nice, I guess. But aren’t first kisses supposed to be more than nice?
His hands remain firmly within PG territory, with one around my waist and one bracing my upper back between my shoulder blades. It’s the portrait of a Hallmark movie kiss—there’s zero passion to be found.
As if reading my mind, his hand slides higher up my back, coming to rest on my neck. Now we’re getting somewhere. If he could just sink his fingers into my hair and pull, taking control a little, I might be able to work with that. Push me up against the door behind me for good measure. But he doesn’t. He cradles my head gently, and it’s sweet while frustrating at the same time.
Because this isn’t his fault. It’s no one’s fault, though it sure as hell feels like mine. Preston ticks all of the ideal boyfriend boxes: smart, ambitious, handsome, and considerate. I want to like him, and I’m trying to right now. Unfortunately for both of us, it doesn’t appear to be working. I can’t create chemistry out of thin air, no matter how much I wish I could.
My hands loop around his shoulders while he angles my face, deepening the kiss. I’m still searching for the spark and coming up hopelessly empty-handed. Foolishly, I had hoped that our friendship would somehow translate into physical compatibility. Maybe that’s part of the problem. He’s my friend, and it’s hard to see him as anything else.
Is it possible for your brain to be attracted to someone while your body isn’t? It feels like that’s the explanation here. On an intellectual level, I know I should be into this. On a physiological level, I’m simply not.
Plus, even if I assume Preston is playing it safe because he’s trying to take things slow with me, I can tell—I just know—that he doesn’t have some secret, well-hidden kinky side like I was hoping he might.
Like I do.
While I sort of suspected this going in, I am more certain than ever that he’d be appalled if he knew what turned me on. Preston is not the kind of guy who’s going to order me to get down on my knees, lavishing me with that perfect blend of sweet and sordid nothings. He’s not going to push the envelope between pleasure and pain, degradation and praise. And he’s definitely not going to get off on it if I fight him, even if we’re role playing.
The unfortunate reality is, some of the boxes on my boyfriend checklist are a little out of the norm. No one’s ever checked them off . . . except for Nash.
Preston slowly ends the kiss, and I plummet back to reality, horrified at the sudden realization of who I was thinking of instead.
He flashes me a flirty grin. “I’ll text you this weekend.”
“Sure,” I whisper, ignoring the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. “Sounds good.”
What the hell did I just do?
His hand lingers around my waist while I fumble with my keys and unlock the deadbolt, pushing the door open. With another peck on the lips, Preston releases me, waiting until I’m safely inside before he turns to leave.
Hands shaking, I lock the door behind me and toss my keys into the dish on the entry table with a clang. Leaving the lights off, I shuffle into the pitch-black living room as a kaleidoscope of emotions blossoms in my chest, sinking into the pit of my stomach. Guilt, anger, regret, longing, resentment, sadness, along with other things I can’t even put into words.
Lowering onto the couch, I rest my head in my hands while hot tears prick at my eyes, threatening to overflow. My teeth sink into my lip, trying to bite back a sob.
I have never been more frustrated in my life.
More than that, I feel hopeless. Defective. Damaged beyond repair.
Since Nash and I have broken up, I’ve been batting zero for five. I’ve kissed five perfect-on-paper guys with precisely zero butterflies.
I want those goddamn butterflies—and only Mr. Wrong has ever given them to me.
